


Be Careful What You Wish For

by apokfan (writing1swat)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Winchesters, Case Fic, Complete, Gen, Season 1, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, doing what they do best, magical typewriter, outsider pov, which is hunting down warlocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing1swat/pseuds/apokfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allen Grey, an aspiring writer, gets ahold of a magical typewriter that makes things come true. At first he thinks it’s the greatest thing ever. But a year later and the Winchesters roll into town and nothing is what it seems. </p><p> <strong>Case fiction, Outsider POV</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Careful What You Wish For

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something for tonight before I headed to bed. (please note: I made everything up. I'm sure there's no real myth about a Chinese typewriter)

**Part 1**

It was a stupid idea.

It was Terry’s idea. That was why it was so stupid. But Allen went along with it as usual, because he couldn’t seem to turn the poor kid down. Terry was in a bad spot right now anyway, what, with losing his mama recently. Cancer. Fucking things. Knew for weeks it was all going to play out like this, but everyone was messed up just the same as if the news hadn’t been shared weeks ago. Allen thought it a little strange at first they hadn’t realized there’d been something wrong with the woman until just last month, but the doc, nice friendly guy that he was, said it wasn’t that uncommon to catch these kinds of things too late. It just really, really plain sucked though.

Terry was bouncing on the balls of his heels as they stood side by side in front of the newly opened antique store. He shivered in the cold a little and gripped Allen’s hand tighter, clinging on to him like a damn overgrown stuffed teddy bear. Allen squeezed back more reassuring than anything else. It was Terry’s first time in a few days out of the cramped apartment and if Terry wanted to go running around in an antique store then by God he would, Allen couldn’t seem to deny his cousin anything these days.

Terry leaned over and said, “Thanks, Allen. This is gonna be awesome. I promise.”

Allen rolled his eyes. “Whatever, squirt.”

“I’m not a squirt! Come on, let’s go already.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going. Quit your shoving.”

Terry eyed him critically. “I wouldn’t have to shove you if you’d hurry up,” he huffed. Allen frowned and cuffed his cousin in the back of the head. “Ow!”

“It’s what you get,” he muttered as they finally entered the store. The first thing Allen noticed was that the air conditioner must have been on because fuck was it cold, freezing. He couldn’t help but wrap his arms in a feeble attempt to cover his body. Was the owner of this joint a freaking Eskimo or what?

“It’sss c-cold,” Terry stuttered.

“Yeah,” Allen agreed as he looked around.

Seemed pretty empty for opening day. Not a person in sight, not even the manager. Weird. Allen walked further in and took a look at the shelves of knickknacks. There were some bizarre stuff, some admittedly creepy ones too. Allen got a creeping suspicion he was in the beginning of a horror movie after he’d come across, what was this now–the third? Fourth?–another dangling puppet that looked creepily life like, long, stringy blonde hair and huge, blue eyes wearing a small, plain nightgown, a hairbrush clinging to one small hand. Allen backed up a step and nearly bumped the shelves behind him.

“Allen! Allen! Allen! Look. Look what I got!” Terry came barreling over just as Allen straightened back up, an old fashioned typewriter hugged to his body. “Look! Isn’t it cool? Isn’t it the most awesome thing you ever saw?”

Allen rolled his eyes as he took the typewriter from the kid. He ignored Terry’s indignant squawked out, “Hey!” and continued to examine it. Nothing seemed odd about it. Just a plain typewriter from back when computers were unimaginable. Allen wondered what a thing like this was doing sitting somewhere in the back of an antique store. He grinned down at his cousin and ruffled his hair.

“Dude! Stop–stop that,” Terry swiped his hand away and stalked back to the front of the store before Allen could do anything else to him.

Allen was quick to follow the little rugrat, arms still full of typewriter.

The owner of the store turned out to be an Asian lady named Charlotte Wang (apparently she grew up in America all her life and her mom was fond of “ **Charlotte’s Web** ”, hence the name Charlotte). She was in her mid-thirties at most but Allen didn’t give much thought to that. When she saw what it was that Allen was holding though her eyes seemed to light up. At the prospect of a first sell, he wasn’t sure. It seemed to be more to it than that, and boy was he right. At the time he just didn’t know. If he had, he’d probably had dropped the thing on the spot, grabbed his cousin’s hand and hightailed it out of there.

But at this time and moment, Allen didn’t know any better and well, he was curious. He always wanted a typewriter. He wasn’t sure why. The history of it, maybe, knowing that these things had been invented before computers and laptops, before iPads and iPhones, before pretty much everything. It felt pretty sweet to hold one in his hands.

“What have you got there, young man?” The woman had said in perfect English, not a hint of accent in her voice. “Come here. Let me see it.” She was eyeing the typewriter critically, like it was the first time she, herself, was seeing it. Allen hesitated only for a second and walked on stiff feet to the register, handing it over slowly, carefully. Terry hugged his side, watching with wide eyes and a silent mouth as the woman looked it over. “Ahh,” she said at last, like she finally found what she was looking for and turned to face the boys. “This was an heirloom passed down from generation to generation in an aristocrat’s family in China.”

Allen raised his eyebrows. “This came from China?”

“Cool!” Terry shouted, ecstatic.

Charlotte nodded, her face thoughtful as she peered down at the contraption in question. “It’s definitely the one.”

Allen traced a finger across the keys lightly. “How can you tell? These have the American alphabet on it.”

Charlotte peeled one of the stickers off, the one that had a ‘K’ on it, and much to Allen’s surprise, a Chinese symbol underneath it was revealed. Well that was strange, no doubt about it. Allen couldn’t hold back his eagerness any longer. He leaned forward and asked, “How much for it?” He got out his wallet from the back of his pants.

“Actually it’s not for sale,” Charlotte said.

Allen looked up in surprise. “If it’s not for sale, what’s it doing in the store?” he demanded, gesturing around them.

“Do you see a price tag on it anywhere?”

“N-no but that doesn’t answer the question.”

The woman didn’t reply. She started to put the typewriter away. Allen shot his hand out and grabbed her wrist before he knew what he was doing. “Look, just name a price. I promise I can pay it,” he pleaded. He felt his eyes once again drawn to the typewriter. There was just something about it, an itch in the back of his head, like he _had_ to have it. 

“ _Please_ ,” he implored one last time in the silence.

Charlotte sighed and relented. He paid a meager price of fifty bucks and slipped his wallet back into the back of his pants, happy as a clam with his purchase. Terry was bouncing up and down eagerly to his left and they managed to slip out of the store and into the warm night. 

Allen could’ve sworn he heard a, “Be careful,” on his way out though. The thought faded as they got into the car and sped off into the night.

The typewriter was fine. For something shipped from China, it was actually doing better than fine. It was perfect. When he settled back into his apartment, Allen took it out of the bag and looked it over before setting it down on a cleaned out table. It already paper in it so out of curiosity, Allen brought a finger to hover over the key that had once been ‘K’. He tapped it lightly.

 _Click_.

The K came up on paper. Soon he was typing out a paragraph. It was mostly nonsense, just a test run to see how smoothly it worked. Pretty damn smooth. And loud. Obnoxiously loud. But that was how it was with all typewriters sadly.

Allen started to write all his papers on it after the first day.

It was a week in when he first noticed something really strange. Allen was having one of those days, dreaded writer’s block, damn it. He was finally starting the outline for his latest sci-fi idea. He wanted it based off, or something like, the new **Ender’s Game** movie that recently came out. Galactic travel, spaceships, aliens, the whole lot was pretty epic. But Allen was at a standstill.

He groaned and just started typing. Sometimes it helped to just get any thoughts out on paper. It’d at least stop bugging him in his head, he hoped.

The first sentence went something like this:

_Peter couldn’t believe what he was seeing outside his house when he opened the door to fetch the morning papers, his mouth in an open gape…he must be going crazy, he thought wildly and darted into the house to call someone._

The phone rang three times before Allen snapped back to himself and scrambled to pick up the phone. On the other end was Terry, babbling about a movie he watched his papa about flying spaceships and aliens. It was weird but not that weird. Terry was a hardcore sci-fi fan, more than Allen if that was even possible.

Allen got back to writing after that, and more coincidences kept showing up.

Eventually, a month later, Allen couldn’t ignore it any longer and had to test it. Just to be sure.

He wrote out:

_When Allen Grey turns on the TV in his apartment, he is delighted to see **Alien Vs Predator** on rerun._

He waited five whole minutes before flipping on the TV. It worked. He didn’t feel all that delighted but it fucking worked and that was all that mattered.

Allen always wanted to write professionally for a living. He had great ideas, he thought, always thinking outside the box when he was in grade school and the likes. His parents seemed hesitant at first when he pitched the idea out when he started high school, but when they actually got around to sitting and reading one of his stories, some of the doubts they held went away. Or at least he thought.

It was like his wish when he was little had come true when he walked right in that small antique store four months ago. 

He looked down at the typewriter like it was the Holy Grail. With this, he could be more than a writer. Things came true with this. The power with just a stroke of a finger. He could help people. He could end world hunger, cure cancer, maybe even bring people back from the dead. It got Allen wondering all kinds of things. He started typing.

It turned out that the typewriter had rules and limits.

It couldn’t end world hunger that was for sure. It also couldn’t cure cancer. It seemed limited to one person at a time. Allen couldn’t make two people or animals, in this case, do something at the same time in one sentence, like he couldn’t get Toby, his cat, to chase after the ball while Oscar was made to bark the alphabet or something–Allen was still on major writer’s block.

And if he didn’t word it _precisely_ , it’d only get half of what was typed and make that come true instead of the whole sentence. Which Allen grudgingly accepted.

A year later found Allen living a great life. He was pretty much Minnesota’s Batman.

It was sometime in the middle of summer, maybe near the end of July, in 2005 when the Winchester brothers–though he wouldn’t know their true identities until after their hijinks–came rolling into town.

“So this is Minnesota, huh? Kinda average looking, if you asked me,” the blonde guy said to his brunette buddy.

Allen didn’t mean to linger when he was supposed to be sorting the shelves out. He watched as Charlotte ushered the men further inside and the brunette closed the door gently behind him. The men followed her to the register and without preamble the brunette took out a badge and flipped it open so that the occupants in the store could see the gold F.B.I, “I’m Agent Ross and this is my partner Bon.”

“What’s the FBI doing here in this backwater town?” Allen asked, panic starting to rise.

The blonde, Agent Bon, eyed him critically. His lips pursed, he said, “Have you heard about the Reverend?” He pulled out a rolled up newspaper and tossed it to Allen.

Allen opened it curiously. “Reverend Mason,” he said as he read the article. 

Agent Ross nodded as Allen looked back up and handed the newspaper back. “Apparently he got rammed with a pitchfork through his neck.”

Allen swallowed the bile trying to come up his throat at the image that popped up of the weathered man with a pitchfork pierced through his neck, the tip slicked with the reverend’s blood. It was so similar to a scene in one of his rough drafts. He shook his head to rid himself of that thought.

“Yeah. Pretty gross,” Agent Bon commented as he watched Allen carefully. A shiver ran down his spine.

“Yeah,” Allen agreed quietly.

The FBI agents stayed at Charlotte’s antique store a while later, grinding her with questions. Some of them seemed strange to Allen.

“Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? Maybe things that have been moved or misplaced recently?” Agent Ross pressed, his face curiously thoughtful.

Charlotte shook her head, giving him a curious look in return.

Allen managed to slip out of there before closing. He got back to his apartment fifteen minutes before ten o’clock. The typewriter sat on the table in plain sight as usual. Allen gave into his sudden impulse to hide it in his room. He climbed into bed and resumed his story.

It wasn’t sci-fi this time, Allen decided he didn’t want to see aliens come to life and suddenly invade earth, not that the typewriter had the power to grant that. With watching the last ‘Harry Potter’ movie just the other night for the second time with Terry, he decided to take his first foray into the fantasy realm. 

_Jesse was secretly a witch her whole life and no one ever knew it…_

He peered at the paragraph once he was done and decided to trash it. He wasn’t sure what it was about fantasy that made him want to cringe when it didn’t come out the way he hoped. It wasn’t like that with sci-fi. He tried again and was met with the same result. The third time came out somewhat better and Allen looked back over his work.

 _No one knew the woman that owned the antique store downtown, not really at least. Her name was Jesse and she owned a magic, ancient typewriter. That was all the folks really knew. What no one really knew was that she was in fact a witch, centuries old. She came to setup shop in Minnesota and lured the lonely locals in_.

Allen blinked at the new writing. He didn’t type all that, he was pretty sure. He read it over again, a chill running down his spine. Suddenly the keys seemed to come to life, typing all on its own as Allen jumped to his feet to stare down at the typewriter.

_CLICK CLACK CLICK CLACK PINGG CLICK CLACK CLICK CLACK CLICK CLACK PINNG_

“Holy shit,” Allen whispered, reading along as it continued to type its message out in a frantic speed.

 _One day a stupid boy and his younger cousin came into Charlotte’s web. He didn’t know at the time though. Little Terry walked to the back and spotted a door open ajar. He peeked in, curious. It was dark but not enough to hide anything from wandering eyes. Soon enough he found a typewriter. He took it without thought and showed it to his cousin. That was the day Allen fell in love with a typewriter. He had to have it, fallen under a witch’s spell, unknowingly_.

Allen worked his jaw but nothing came out. The typewriter continued.

_A long time ago there lived a powerful warlock…_

A loud knock sounded through the apartment, Allen whipped his head to the door. The noise of the keys stopped and when Allen looked back, the typewriter had completely stilled again. Whatever entity that controlled it was gone. Allen heaved out a sigh of relief and rushed out to answer the door.

“Agent Ross, Agent Bon, pleasant surprise. What can I do for you two tonight?” Allen asked, plastering on a polite smile.

Agent Bon frowned and stepped inside without Allen’s permission. Irked by the movement, Allen stepped aside for the men. Apparently whatever they came to talk to him about couldn’t wait until at least morning. Fine by Allen. As long as they didn’t go into his room. He couldn’t help but dart a quick look to the open door. He hoped the agents missed it. Unfortunately the two gentlemen were sharper than they looked and nothing went unnoticed.

“Is there a problem, Mister Grey?” Agent Ross asked.

“Not at all,” Allen said, forcing a neutral voice. “I just…give me one second. If I’d known I’d be paid a visit by the feds tonight, I’d have tidied up some more.”

Agent Bon took a look around and said, cheerfully, “We’ve seen way worse. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“R-right. Well, give me a quick sec anyway.” Without waiting for an answer, Allen darted to hide the typewriter in the closet and shut the door.

“Everything okay now? No more problems?” Agent Ross asked once he got back.

Allen smiled. “All good,” he assured.

“Great,” Agent Bon said, a cat grin on his face as he sank into the couch. “Let’s talk then, Allen. About that typewriter that I’m pretty sure is in your room somewhere.”

 

 

They weren’t FBI after all. Sam and Dean Winchester were some sort of hunters. At least that was what they told Allen. He asked, “For what kinda things?”

“All sorts,” Sam said.

Dean nodded and stroked his chin, then chugged down his beer. “Right now, we’re tracking down a magic typewriter. It led us to the antique shop, which led us to you.”

Allen gulped. “What makes you think I have it?”

“You can cut the crap, man. We all know who’s hiding what here. Come on. Give it up already.”

The jig was up at this point. Allen hesitated. That seemed answer enough as both men surged to their feet and helped Allen up. He was pushed into the hall. “Come on, Allen, where is it?” Dean asked.

“Uh,” Allen stuttered. They opened the door and walked into the room. Allen hurried to the closet and pulled out the typewriter.

“That’s it?” Dean asked, looking at it with mild curiosity. He turned to Sam for clarification.

“Yeah. Should be,” Sam murmured, turning it over to look at the bottom. Allen wasn’t sure what it was he was searching for but he seemed satisfied with what he found and turned to Allen. “Thanks, man, you have no idea how many people you’ve helped save.”

Allen hesitated at that, not liking what Sam was implying. “What do you mean?”

“It’s got magic properties to it. From what we found out, this typewriter had been on display in China before someone stole it a decade ago. Centuries ago, it was a favorite heirloom to be passed down from generation to generation in noble families.”

“Such a geek, Sammy,” Dean said fondly, nudging the man in the side.

“Whatever.” Sam swatted his elbow away.

“How’s it magic?” Allen asked.

“Well, apparently legend says that the typewriter grants hidden wishes. One wish per owner.”

Allen blinked at the answer. “Really?” he asked, his heart stuttering.

“Yeah. Why? What’d you wish for?” Dean asked, eyeing him suspiciously now.

“Uh. I’ve wanted to be a writer,” Allen blurted out.

“So, what? It grant you with the power of words then? You a bestseller?”

Allen hesitated. “Not quite.”

“What do you mean?” The brothers asked together.

Allen scratched the back of his head and took a deep breath. “Everything I’ve been writing, for the past year now, has been coming true.”

 

 

“So you’ve been writing these stories of yours on it for the past year?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” Allen said quietly with a sigh. “At first it cool. Pretty awesome really. I mean I type things, sentences, and five minutes later, they mostly come true.”

“Mostly? And you have to wait five minutes for it to work?” Sam asked. “Huh. So there are limits.”

“Yeah I know. Kinda sucks, right? Can’t end world hunger or cure cancer or anything like that.” Dean raised an eyebrow and Allen said, “Dude, what? I tried.”

“Can you make a burger and fries appear with it?” Dean asked. His brother looked at him. “What?”

Allen shook his head. “No. I can only control the actions of people or animals with it. So, I can make you make a burger for yourself.”

Dean’s face scrunched at the idea. “No way, man.”

“So it’s mind control on paper,” Sam mused.

“Well that’s just awesome. All the more reason to destroy this thing and then get the hell out of dodge.”

“Wait. What? You’re going to destroy it?” Allen asked, panic rising for the second that night.

“Yeah. It’s what we do,” Dean said as he stared down the typewriter on the kitchen table, trying to figure out how best to go about it.

“You can’t do that!”

“Why can’t we?” Sam asked.

Allen couldn’t believe these guys. Hunters or not, magical object or not, he paid for this typewriter. It was his. “Because it’s mine,” he said.

“Oh, please. How much you pay for this, man? Like sixty bucks? Fifty? Can’t have been more than a hundred,” Dean said.

“It’s mine,” Allen insisted.

“It’s magic,” Dean asserted, then looked to Sam for backup.

Sam rolled his eyes and fished out a silver knife from the inside of his boot. Allen felt his eyes widen. 

“Dude,” he squeaked.

“Think silver will work better or the good old salt and burn?” Sam asked, flicking the knife in the air.

Dean shrugged and took out a lighter. “Let’s not take any chances with this.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Allen lunged in front of the hunters. “Wait! Stop! Stop! I, uh, forgot something.”

“What’s that?” Dean asked impatiently.

“Before you came…the typewriter…it typed this out. By itself.” He fished out a crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it over.

“So, what now, Dean?” Sam finally asked into the silence. He tossed the paper to his brother who caught it easily. 

“This definitely complicates thing,” Dean said.

 

 

**Part 2**

“So it’s possessed? My magic typewriter is possessed?” Allen asked.

“Dunno for sure, man, but it sounds like it,” Dean said tiredly. “What are you thinking, Sammy? Run of the mill spirit?”

“I dunno. It’s kinda weird, don’t you think, Dean?” Sam said looking the paper over.

Dean shrugged and eyed Allen who was fidgeting on the other end of the couch. “This whole fucking case is.”

“Well, more so than the rest, I mean,” Sam said with an eye roll.

“What?”

“Look at this sentence, Dean, the one just below the paragraph.”

Dean read over it carefully, frowned and said, “Warlock? Think the spirit is a spirit of a warlock?”

“What else could it be? What’s powerful enough to mind control stuff without having to physically be there?” Sam prodded.

“Fuck. Witches.”

“Exactly.”

The men stood up.

Alarmed, Allen asked, “Witches? Warlocks?”

Dean turned and said tersely, “Yeah. They’re pretty much people that like to dab in dark voodoo crap.”

“Well that’s witches. Warlocks are a bit different,” Sam said.

“How so?” Dean asked.

“They’re born with actual magic.”

“Great,” Dean said. He stared blankly at the typewriter. “So our spirit’s a warlock, right?”

Sam nodded, immediately latched on Dean’s train of thought. “How’d he get stuck in a typewriter to begin with?”

Allen fiddled nervously with the fabric of his shirt. He still remembered when the typewriter went all ‘Paranormal Activity’ less than a couple hours ago.

 _Charlotte’s web_ it had typed out. Shit.

“I think I may know,” Allen said and hurried to put on his shoes and opened the door. He waited for the hunters to catch on, then they all went out.

“Huh, so it’s Charlotte. Think she’s a witch, Sammy?”

Sam shrugged. “Might be another warlock. I mean to trap a warlock in a typewriter, that’s gotta take a lot of mojo, right? More than what a witch would be packing at least.”

“This is just awesome,” Dean grumbled as Allen drove them down to the antic store.

“This is insane, you have to realize,” he said to the back.

“You’re the one that was playing with a magic typewriter. You tell us!” Dean shot back.

“Dully noted,” Allen said.

It was a surprise to see the lights still on in the shop at past midnight. Allen always suspected, maybe, somewhere in the back of his head that Charlotte liked to stay in the tiny store longer than closing. He parked on the street across the antique store and turned off the engine. He turned to warn the men about just storming in, in time to watch the two hunters already climbing out and stretching their limbs. Well, great. Allen climbed out as well and trailed behind, feeling like an unnecessary luggage.

“Stay behind us and let us handle everything, okay? Run if you have to and whatever you do, don’t let her take the typewriter back. We’re gonna go in and gank her and hopefully if this ends the way we plan, the poor sucker in the typewriter should be freed.”

“And the typewriter? What’ll you do with it?” Allen ask.

“Nothing,” Sam said.

“Nothing?”

“There shouldn’t be anything wrong with the typewriter afterwards,” Dean explained. “We think it was the warlock the whole time.”

“So…it’ll be a normal typewriter?”

“Yeah. Gank the witch, save the typewriter,” Dean said with a snigger.

Sam cuffed Dean to the back of his head. “Ow! Sammy!”

“You’re not funny, dude,” Sam muttered.

“I totally am!”

 

 

Charlotte was in the back, putting away the last couple of boxes. Allen wondered if she had the power, why didn’t she just use it to clean the stuff up. Why bother using your hands if you actually didn’t have to? She looked up at them with a smile.

“Because magic just makes people lazy,” she said, causing Allen to blink in surprise.

Did she just–

“—read your mind?”

Allen gulped, nodded weakly, because that was all he could do at this point. Charlotte, he probably always knew there was something about her, he just couldn’t put a finger on it and now, this, whatever it was going on here, this was proof she was a witch and that the Winchesters weren’t crazy or lying.

“The Winchesters aren’t crazy, no,” Charlotte said.

“So you’re a witch then?” Allen asked.

“I’m a warlock.”

“So your powers are your own then,” Sam said.

Charlotte nodded, looking at the hunter thoughtfully. She eyed the car outside the store. “You brought him with you I’m assuming.”

Allen tensed, knowing instantly who she was talking about. Gathering up courage, he said, “You can’t have him back.”

“Why not?” The warlock demanded.

“Because we know who trapped him to begin with,” Sam said stepping forward.

Charlotte looked from hunter to hunter, frowning. “Then you know he’s mine.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“He’s my husband,” Charlotte said.

“Again. _What_?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “He’s on punishment right now.”

Allen blanched. “Charlotte! You turned your husband into a typewriter?”

“We were in a fight.”

In the end, they couldn’t stop Charlotte from taking back her husband/typewriter, whatever he may be. Sam and Dean agreed not to hunt them if they left town quietly and Allen learned not to go to any more antique stores in the near future, no matter how much Terry pestered him. It was a win-win on all sides. Well, except Charlotte’s husband. But that wasn’t any of Allen’s business and he made a small note to stay away from women that had magic powers.

God, he needed a beer or two.


End file.
